


Follow me into the endless night (I can bring your fears to life)

by trashgoblinwizardparty



Series: October 2019 Flash Prompt Fest [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, M/M, Predator/Prey, gives a new meaning to the term 'harry hunting' heh heh heh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-05 02:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21206132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashgoblinwizardparty/pseuds/trashgoblinwizardparty
Summary: Through a darkened forest, Harry Potter runs.Through a darkened forest, Lord Voldemort gives chase.





	Follow me into the endless night (I can bring your fears to life)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [Miraculous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miraculous/pseuds/Miraculous) in the [October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/October_Flash_Fest_Part_Two) collection. 

> **Prompt:**
> 
> Voldemort chasing Harry through a forest, neither of them have their wands. Harry's fast, but Voldemort..... he can still do wandless magic. Run, Harry, or he'll catch you....
> 
> Unbetaed and...to be continued in another one of dory's prompts :maniacal:

The forest was darker than the night around it. Above the trees Harry knew, logically, the stars shone and the last sliver of the dying moon gazed down upon the earth. But underneath the canopy, all was shadow.  


Harry ran.  


He didn’t know where he was in the forest, or even  _ which _ forest it was. There were times when Harry thought it was perhaps the Forbidden Forest with its magic-twisted trees, and others when he was sure it was the Forest of Dean. Maybe even the one in Dartmoor, after the Quidditch World Cup, where Harry had first seen the Dark Mark.

Perhaps it was an amalgam of them all—every forest Harry had ever been in rolled into one.  


It didn’t matter, because Harry still ran.  


Branches reached their clawed fingers out to tear at his clothes and hair. Roots pulled free of the soil to tangle at his feet. The leaves underfoot, slippery with wet and mold, conspired to slide out from beneath his battered trainers. Even the earth itself seemed to want to pull him down into a loamy embrace.  


Harry was tired, cold, damp, and bleeding from multiple scratches. He didn’t have his wand anymore. He didn’t have any wand. His clothes were torn and filthy, and were the only possessions he had left in the world. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been warm, or had a rest. He couldn’t remember a time when he wasn’t running. He’d been running his entire life.  


Harry ran because a monster chased him.  


_ “Just give in, Harry,” _ the monster cooed within Harry’s mind.  _ “Just give in, and let me have you.” _   


Every time Harry slowed, the voice in his head was there, whispering, accompanied by a flash of blinding pain in his scar.   


_ “You can run, my dear Harry, but you cannot escape Lord Voldemort.” _

So he kept on, because there was nothing else he could do. Stopping was the same as giving up, and Harry couldn’t give up. Not when he could still run.  


_ “Your life belongs to me. Your soul is mine. Your body is mine. Your blood runs through my veins.”  
_

A monster that both chased him, but also resided in his mind, making a nest in his very soul.  


_ “Give up.” _

Harry ran, dodging under grasping branches.  


_ “Give in.”  
_

Harry ran, leaping over roots snaking along the ground. 

_ “Give yourself up to me willingly, and I might spare you.”  
_

Pain exploded, blinding, in Harry’s forehead. The scar throbbed in time with his galloping heart, and something wet and warm ran into his eyes, obscuring his vision.  


Blood.  


Voldemort was closing in.  


But still, Harry ran.  


Until he could run no more.  


The forest stopped abruptly. Harry burst free of the clinging foliage and only his Quidditch-fast reflexes saved him from tumbling off the edge of a precipice.  


He scrambled backwards, flailing his arms to catch at something, anything, as the ground crumbled away beneath his feet, swallowed by the black abyss below. More and more of the earth gave way, and Harry fell, grasping at the gnarled roots which clung to the sheer cliff face.  


Harry’s arms ached and trembled from holding on. Soil and stone slithered away along either side of him, falling into the chasm below, until all that kept Harry himself from plummeting into the dark nothingness was the network of roots he held onto.  


He swallowed with difficulty and looked down. His feet dangled over what looked to be a genuinely bottomless pit. He noted with detached interest that one of his shoelaces were untied. Harry forced himself to look back up. Roots could be climbed. If he could just get himself back up, he could dart away into the underbrush, could hide, could fight.   


But he was so tired of running and fighting. He thought of Ron and Hermione, Dumbledore, his parents, Sirius...he gritted his teeth. All he had to do was climb. Just put one hand above the other and pull himself up.  


But his exhausted body wouldn’t obey, and Harry had to choke back a sob. The pain in his scar was unrelenting, and Harry squeezed his eyes shut, defeated.  


An intrusive bubble of utter glee interrupted his despair.  


“What a pretty sight this is.”  


The voice was no longer in his head.

Harry looked up.  


Voldemort stood tall and leering over him, his dark cloak billowing dramatically in the updraft from the abyss.  


He was no longer the serpentine-faced monstrosity that had arisen from the cauldron that night in the graveyard. Instead, his face was how Harry had seen him in the Pensieve memories of Tom Riddle working at Borgin and Burke’s: pale skin, sharp cheekbones, a fine, aristocratic nose, and elegantly-styled dark hair. The only thing that remained of his previous appearance were the eyes—slitted like a snake’s, red as blood, and almost glowing as he gazed down upon his quarry.  


Harry had a moment—only one—of weakness, where he considered giving himself up, begging for mercy, allowing Voldemort to take him.  


Then Harry took a deep breath, looked Voldemort directly in the eye, and let go of the roots.  


But the roots—

—did not let go—

—of Harry.  


“I think not.”  


Harry let out a shout as the roots wrapped around his body, coiling like snakes around prey. Voldemort wasn’t even using a wand, he only gestured with his hand and the roots obeyed.  


Harry struggled, kicking and squirming but it was no use. Blood flowed freely into his eyes from the scar—the pain now so constant it was like being held under the Cruciatus Curse. The roots held him fast and brought him to Voldemort’s eye-level.  


Voldemort’s face was deceptively impassive, but Harry could feel his delight through their strange bond at having the Chosen One at his mercy.  


Harry’s struggles became weaker as the roots constricted him, until at last, his body, pushed beyond all endurance, gave out. He slumped in defeat, all the will to fight draining out of him like water through a sieve. Harry hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut against the tears that threatened. He refused to let Voldemort see him cry.  


“Look at me,” Voldemort commanded.  


“No,” Harry rasped, his voice hoarse from disuse.  


Long fingers traced along Harry’s jawline, stroked along his cheek in something that could have been called a caress if circumstances had been different. Still, Harry kept his eyes shut.  


The fingers drifted upwards, settling over the bleeding scar. Harry braced himself for even more pain—and his eyes flew open in shock as Voldemort’s touch made the pain recede. Then, a hand, deceptively gentle, stroked over Harry’s unruly hair, dislodging bits of twig and leaf and dirt. There was no pain. In fact, it almost felt...good...to have Voldemort touch him. Harry was prepared for pain, expecting pain. But this? This, he didn’t know what to make of.  


“Wh-what are you doing?” Harry stammered.  


“Oh, Harry,” Voldemort said, moving even closer. “You are mine, now. You belong to me.”

He was near enough now that they were almost chest-to-chest. Harry tried to pull away in horror as Voldemort leaned in enough that his lips brushed the shell of Harry’s ear as he murmured: “Lord Voldemort always takes excellent care of his things.”  


Harry’s breath caught in his throat as Voldemort’s fingers caught in his hair, scraping his fingernails lightly along Harry’s scalp. Harry’s eyes fluttered shut, and he had to bite back a moan.  


Voldemort must’ve felt that through their strange bond, because he gave a low chuckle—so different from his usual high, cold laugh.  


Then Voldemort’s hand drifted down to the back of Harry’s head, and Harry’s eyes snapped open in shock once again at the soft press of lips against his scar.  


“Wha—” Harry started, but a wave of lassitude washed over him, and his eyelids became as heavy as lead.  


Voldemort must have wandlessly and wordlessly cast a sleep spell on him. Harry tried to fight it, but his senses faded, snuffed out like candles one by one.  


“Don’t fight it, Harry.”

He was so tired. His eyes closed.  


“Just give in.”  


That was the last thing Harry heard before he was pulled under by the tide of slumber and knew no more. 


End file.
